Compulsion

She got to her feet, hurried to the door, held it open.

Milo said, “I’m going to ask you one more question that might alarm you, but it’s only routine, in case we do come across accident reports.”

Monica Hedges straightened and sucked on her cigarette. “What?”

“Do you know Katrina’s blood type?”

“That is… eerie.”

“Just routine, ma’am.”

“Some routine you people have,” said Monica Hedges. “I certainly wouldn’t want your job.”

Milo smiled. “Most people don’t.”

“And I’m one of them… her type is the same as mine. O-positive. It’s the most popular.”

She smoked and watched us walk to the elevator. As we stepped into the lift, I heard her say, “There you are, darling. Is everything working?”

The door slammed.

CHAPTER 9

Milo had asked the condo valet to keep the unmarked close. When we got to the front of the building it was gone and the valet was poking a BlackBerry.

A high-decibel throat clear made the man look up.

“The Crown Victoria?”

“Had to move it, too crowded.”

No other cars in sight.

Milo said, “Could you get it?” Adding a “Please” that made the valet flinch.

The guy ambled off toward the subterranean parking lot.

Milo said, “The Shonsky girl’s been missing over a week, Mommie Dearest sees it as playing hooky, wants me to be her personal truant officer.”

“Or she’s in deep denial.”

“She says she’s nervous but all I heard was anger.”

“Anger can mask anxiety,” I said.

He looked at his Timex. “Where’d the hell he park it, Chula Vista… First Tony and his mom and Hochswelder, now this harmonious bunch. Any happy families left?”

“With our jobs we’re not going to meet them.”

“So what do you think of our missing girl? With her history of cutting town on impulse, how far do I take it?”

“O-positive,” I said. “Same as in the Bentley.”

“Didn’t you hear Mom? It’s the most popular type. Like it’s a contest. Growing up with someone like that, I can see needing to escape.”

“That kind of rivalry could also make Katrina vulnerable.”

“To what?”

“Bling. Mom marries rich but Katrina works a low-paying job. If she left the club woozy and feeling abandoned by her pals, two hundred grand worth of car rolling up would’ve seemed heaven-sent. Talk about something to one-up Mommy.”

“If she was picked up, I don’t see it happening at the Light My Fire. I was there last year, chasing a dead lead on a drug murder. The male clientele’s acrylic shirts, too much hair gel, and dance moves worse than mine. Someone drives up in Heubel’s Bentley, the bouncers and everyone else would’ve noticed, and by the time the guy hit the floor, fifty women woulda been all over him.”

He phoned the club, asked to speak to the manager, looked at his watch again, scowled. The line clicked in. A brief conversation followed.

“Guy laughed, said what do you think this is, the Playboy Mansion? He also said nothing unusual happened at the club that night, he already said so to the ‘nosy mother.’”

“If Katrina was upset about being ditched by her friends, she could’ve hit another club, tried to redeem the night. Or she drove home drunk, had some sort of mechanical problem. We just heard she’s impulsive. And she’d stopped making payments on the Mustang. Both of which raise the chance of poor maintenance. For all we know, she simply ran out of gas, got stranded somewhere.”

“Drunk girl, alone late at night, Mr. Moneybags cruises by and says hop in. Or she’s in Hawaii.”

“She guarded her privacy with her mother,” I said, “but her friend worried enough to call Mom.”

“Breaking down on the 405, even late, someone would’ve seen her.”

“With several drinks in her, she could’ve been intimidated by the freeway, chose an alternate route.”

“Or she got totally lost and headed south, Alex. Which could’ve put her in some seriously nasty territory.”

“Why not start with the simplest assumption? When I’m heading north and want to avoid the freeway, I take the Sepulveda Pass. Late at night, once you get north of Sunset, it’s a fast ride, pretty much empty. But that also means breaking down in an isolated area.”

Engine noise sounded from the mouth of the sub-lot. The same valet rolled up in a baby-blue Jaguar sedan, got out and stood by the driver’s door.

Milo walked over to him. “If you insist.”

The valet said, “Huh?”

“I’ll take it in trade if you throw in the extended warranty.”

The valet gaped. Milo got an inch from his face. “Where’s the Crown Vic, friend?”

“I got a call from a resident.”

Milo took out his cell phone. “Want me to call you, too? What’s your number, pal. And while you’re at it, show me some I.D. for an official police investigation.”

The valet didn’t answer.

Milo flashed his shield. “Get it now.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus are coming out in a-”

“I’ll help ’em. Go.”

The valet hazarded eye contact. Whatever he saw made him scurry off.

Milo eyed the Jaguar. “Budget wheels, pshaw. If Katrina did break down and got picked up, think Mr. Bentley Thief was stalking her?”

“Or cruising for a victim and she fit his appetite.”

“Sexual psychopath,” he said. “What’s the link with Ella Mancusi?”

I said, “Thrill of the hunt.”

“Guess so. Normally, I’d kiss Katrina off as not worth my time. But with two big black cars boosted and blood in the damn Bentley…” He shook his head. “Let’s try to find the Mustang.”

An elderly couple exited the condo, saw him standing next to the Jag. Stopped.

He grinned. “Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus.” Opening both doors with a flourish, he said, “Have a great time.”

The couple approached the car nervously. Got in, sped off.

Seconds later, the valet roared up in the unmarked and screeched to a stop. Milo took his hand, opened it, and slapped a five in his palm.

“Not necessary,” said the valet.

“Nor deserved. Have a nice life.”

We drove the Sepulveda Pass north all the way to the Valley’s southern border just shy of Ventura Boulevard, continued a few miles beyond. North of Wilshire was the low, flat stretch of veterans’ cemetery, then small businesses and apartments. After that, rolling hillside topped by lights. Traffic was thin. No sign of Katrina